


Joyrides

by tweeksqueak



Category: South Park
Genre: Bottom Tweek Tweak, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Top Craig Tucker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 05:35:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19419514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tweeksqueak/pseuds/tweeksqueak
Summary: This is a song and dance number they both know by heart: endless bickering and issues that go unsolved, sex and affection because it’s easier to be nice when your mouth is occupied.Tweek and Craig spend an afternoon together.





	Joyrides

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a bonus/side fic for _Love Song and a Motorcycle_ [ [Link]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19038010/chapters/45217354). It builds on the same themes but it has absolutely no bearing on the plot nor does it spoil anything. It can be read as a standalone if you’re just interested in the smut.

“Life hack,” Tweek reads from his phone, “if you brush with baking soda and lemon your teeth will get whiter.”

Craig doesn’t look up. “Lemon juice is awful for your teeth, don’t do that.”

The day is cloudless and sweltering. Only in the shade of the canopied porch swing in the Tuckers’ back yard can Tweek endure being outside. 

In the sliver of shadow behind the garage Craig is washing his motorcycle. The task has taken over half the garden; buckets, different kinds of chemical cleaners and a heap of towels, rags and cloths are spread out around the cycle in a way Tweek assumes makes sense to Craig. It seems less than ideal to be doing this when it’s so hot. Craig, however, couldn’t stand the grime.

Craig puts a lot of time into caring for his Honda. It’s his hobby as much as riding the thing is. The allure of cars and bikes escapes Tweek, but he understands the maintenance part of it, sort of. Tweek likes working with his hands too. 

But watching as Craig scrubs down every bolt on his cycle is about as fun as watching grass grow, and Tweek is getting antsy. He came over here to have _fun_ , goddammit.

Tweek lets the next video play. “I think these are all fake, man. This person seriously put their make up brush in a power drill! How stupid do you have to be to try that?”

“Mhm…” Craig says. 

If Craig would pay attention to him it would be okay. But Craig is deeply absorbed in rubbing the black fairing down with a sudsy sponge, thorough and careful in a way he rarely bothers to be with anything else in his life.

“Putting hot glue all over your socks doesn't make them non-slippery!” Tweek exclaims, bewildered. “Argh! Why’d they lie to people like this? Do you think there’s some conspiracy behind it? Oh God…”

“Sure,” Craig says, which means he didn’t listen at all because he always dispels Tweek’s conspiracy theories. 

Craig rinses the sponge in a bucket of dirty water, squeezes it out and dips it back in the suds bucket. With no further comment he begins scrubbing down the seat of the motorcycle. Tweek fights the urge to sigh loudly. Being petulant isn’t a good look on anyone, but damn, it’s hard not to be.

“Well, whatever,” he huffs. 

He closes the Instagram app since apparently he has to manage his own spiraling thoughts today. Looking for other distractions he browses his favorite cooking websites. What should they make for lunch? It’s only the two of them at home today. Neither him nor Craig are any good cooks, but together they make it work, as long as the recipe is simple enough.

“Hey, what do you wanna have for lunch?” he asks.

Craig shrugs. “I dunno. Whatever we can make.”

Tweek glances over the recipes on the site, evaluating their options. Do they have any bell peppers? Probably not. Definitely no sweet potatoes. They could make a stir fry, maybe? Tweek skims through his bookmarks, wishing the authors would just get the fuck over themselves and not shoehorn in fifteen photographs of the same bowl of mushy curry before the ingredients list.

As Tweek’s frustrations grow Craig unrolls the garden hose. He fiddles with the knob, a lot of nothing happening, until the water come bursting out all at once with the force of a power washer. Craig swears, twisting the knob to even the pressure out. The way the foam slides off the motorcycle when he rinses it is pretty satisfying, Tweek admits, and he drags his eyes away from his phone to watch. 

But it’s over quickly and Craig moves on to the next step in the process: drying the cycle off. Tweek wants to cry, or at the very least stomp his feet like a baby. 

“What about pasta with broccoli and sun-dried tomatoes? Or just an omelette?” he asks. “Do you even have sun-dried tomatoes? Fresh wouldn't do, would it?”

“Whichever you’d like, honey.”

Tweek pouts. Craig is ignoring him.

The beginnings of a sunburn have formed on Tweek’s bare feet, which have been resting in the grass outside of the shade of the canopy. He pulls his legs up and retreats into the shadows like the dumb, unwanted goblin he feels like. The motion jolts the swing into a gentle rhythm. 

With nothing better to do he sits quietly, rocking back and forth. From here he has a view of the whole garden, which is unremarkable but homey. There is a charcoal grill and a table with matching lawn chairs, some of them toppled by the wind. Perennials grow in terracotta pots. In the raised flower bed Mrs Tucker has planted tomatoes, peas and lettuce. The greens are struggling, limp-leafed, barely hanging on to their stakes. There was a bit of an aphid invasion, and the plants never quite recovered. 

It’s not the most well kept of gardens but Tweek has many fond memories here: summer barbecues with the Tucker family; letting the guinea pigs out to graze in their pen; and, years ago now, long evenings playing with Craig and their friends and classmates. He loves it here, usually, but today he wants nothing but to go inside.

“There,” Craig says an eon later, “all done.”

The motorcycle gleams, washed and polished. Craig tosses another towel on the little mountain of laundry that has accumulated by his side.

Tweek springs up with a little too much enthusiasm, thinking, finally, let’s go inside. He’s hungry and bored and his eyes hurt from the sun.

But he finds himself stunned, momentarily, by the sight of Craig. 

He is a little bit grease stained, and soaked in sweat and hose water. His hair hang damply in his face. From his armpits and the collar of his shirt dark stains have bloomed, and the fabric sticks to the outline of him. He’s the image of someone hardworking and handy. Against the backdrop of the motorcycle and all his tools he just look so _capable_ , like he could pick apart anything and put it back together. Including Tweek. It’s kind of—no, incredibly—sexy.

Tweek is attracted to Craig all the time, basically, but in this moment he feels ultra-aware of it. It’s very untimely. Craig’s being a closed off asshole, and it would only humiliate Tweek further to admit how affected he is.

“Do you need help to carry all that stuff inside?” Tweek asks.

“Sure,” Craig says. “Throw this shit in the laundry for me? I’ll be in in a bit.”

Tweek gathers the moist towels in his arms while Craig collects all the other junk. He’s readying to wheel the motorcycle back inside the garage when Tweek closes the porch door behind himself.

The house is empty but not quiet. From the kitchen he can hear the rattle of the running dishwasher. A fly or a bee is buzzing up an angered storm by the living room, stubbornly smashing itself against the windowpane trying to escape. 

Tweek drops the towels in a heap on the floor of the laundry room. He’s not sure how Craig wants them to be washed. What temperature? And should he sort them into colors and whites? What if he fucks up and runs them? Or breaks the machine? An electrical failure could burn the whole house down.

Back inside the living room the continuous _plonk! plonk!_ of the fly sounds too loud for how small the being is. Tweek opens the widow, trying to guide it to freedom with his hand. It only seems to become more agitated and desperate, flicking itself rapidly against the glass.

“You stupid thing, come on! I’m just trying to help you.”

A snort. “What are you doing?”

Tweek yelps, startled. The fly at last finds its way through the gap, and is gone.

“A fly. It was stuck!”

“I could see. Just smash it, dude.”

“Well, don’t ask then! And no, it’s not right—unless it’s carrying salmonella or something. Then it’s for the greater good!”

“How would you know if it does?”

“You don’t! But it wasn’t in the kitchen, so it’s fine.”

“Sure,” Craig says, “that is totally how it works.”

The cuffs of his pants are still sopping wet. There’s a trail from the door to his feet, like two big slugs have crept by. In the golden sunlight that penetrates the room he appears even more handsome, surrounded by a halo of dust particles floating in the air, the sharp features of his face contoured and lit.

“I’m glad you’re done!” Tweek says. “I feel like I’ve aged.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“What do you mean?”

Craig does a motion with his hand, gesturing to something abstract like Tweek should be seeing it too. “You were being moody. I could tell.”

“Oh… I’m sorry?” Tweek tries. 

“It’s whatever. You know you don’t need constant attention though, right? You’re not a puppy.”

 _Wow_ , Tweek thinks, caught off guard by how mean the words come across in Craig’s dull voice. 

Is he right? Maybe. But Tweek takes offense anyway. “I’m your boyfriend! You should at least _pretend_ you wanna talk to me.”

“Not all the time, no. Come on, I’m not having this argument again.” Craig walks deeper into the house, turning Tweek his back. “I’m hitting the shower.”

“Hey!” Tweek calls, but Craig has already closed the door.

Tweek stomps away, hoping Craig can hear it through the door. He’s such a fucking asshole sometimes, unbelievably inconsiderate and rude.

In the kitchen Tweek searches through the cabinets for all the ingredients they will need when cooking, slamming them on the counter top. It’s always easier if they prep everything beforehand. Some awful, awful improvisation has ruined more than a few dishes for them when they’ve realized halfway through the process that they’re missing something vital, like milk or potatoes. Tweek thinks he might explode if that happens today.

But by the time he finds a small, glass jar of sun-dried tomatoes in the back of the fridge the anger has already burnt out, and all that is left in the embers are shame.

It’s very obvious that Craig isn’t appreciating Tweek’s chattiness when he’s working on his Honda. Tweek isn’t dense. He is stupid though, because he never respects Craig’s wishes even though he knows he should. 

This, today, isn’t Craig being truly angry. But they are poking around foolishly close to tender bruises. Their oldest feud is this: all Tweek wants to do is take, and Craig will not give. Tweek fears that he might care more about their relationship than Craig does. If Tweek was as important to Craig as Craig is to Tweek, Craig wouldn’t ignore him for an hour to rub soap on a motorcycle. He wouldn’t invite Tweek over just to wish him to be quiet. He wouldn’t act like Tweek wanting his attention and affection was a bother.

It’s humiliating and embarrassing, and if Tweek wasn’t so stupidly attached to Craig he’d be furious. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Tweek is much too devoted to him.

Craig appears in the doorway, showered and dressed in sweatpants and a clean t-shirt. 

“So what are we making?” he asks. 

_If you’d listened before you would’ve known_ , Tweek wants to say, but that would start the whole thing over again. He shows Craig the recipe on his phone instead.

“Looks good,” he says. “Move over, I’m gonna chop onions.”

They cook, and Tweek can’t tell if Craig is still annoyed with him or not. He responds to Tweek’s brainless chatter in short affirmatives or negatives with the occasional comment, but that is fairly normal for him. 

When the food has been plated Tweek just wants to get out of the kitchen. The aura here is off, ruined by Tweek’s nervous energy. It itches in Tweek’s bones.

“Can we eat in your room?” he asks.

Craig shrugs. “As long as you don’t spill anything. Don’t forget your coffee.”

As if he ever would, in tension like this. Coffee is the one comfort he can always rely on.

In Craig’s room the guinea pigs are having an afternoon nap in the hay. They stir when the door opens, suspiciously eyeing the human intruders, but soon doze off again. Tweek watches them from the bed, pushing farfalle in circles with his fork. Generally he loves pasta, but there is something heavy weighing down his stomach, making him feeling too miserable to eat.

Is Tweek overreacting? Is Craig even mad? Should Tweek be the angry one? He wants to get up and ask, but it’s been so long now since Craig told him off that bringing it up again seems like exposing his vulnerability too much.

Craig, sitting at his desk clicking around on his PC, has no trouble eating. How he can be so untroubled all the time Tweek doesn’t know. Is it a facade? Is he seething on the inside?

Turning it over and over in his head is going to drive Tweek insane. He needs to know what Craig is thinking.

He gives in. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“Facebook,” Craig says. “Jenny’s got a new boyfriend. Do you know who this is?”

Tweek stands up to check. He doesn’t know, and says so. The guy must be from another school, because the local high school is small and Tweek probably would’ve recognized him. He’s good at remembering faces. “Anything else that’s new?”

“Nah, it’s mostly boring shit.” Craig spins around. “Eat your food, dude.”

“OK, Mom.” He’s taking a risk, but decides to push it, to see how Craig really is feeling towards him. He grabs his plate and plops it down on the desk next to Craig’s. “Make room, I wanna see.”

“This chair wasn’t made for this,” Craig sighs, but he scoots to side to give Tweek space anyway.

Tweek perches with about half his butt on the cushion, which isn’t the most comfortable way to sit. He’s delighted that Craig didn’t turn him away. He could've easily, with a joke or concern for his poor chair. But he didn’t. 

The food tastes better now, goes down easily. Craig has one arm slung around his back, keeping them both from falling off, and God, isn’t this stupid? Tweek wants to laugh. Here they are sitting like idiots, acting ridiculous, because Tweek’s too afraid to ask a straight question.

Craig clicks aimlessly through his bookmarks. Tweek barely notices was he’s doing, too caught up in the physical closeness to pay attention.

The last of the sauce he licks off from his fork. “Look,” he speaks through the prongs, “are you happy now?”

“Very,” Craig says. He pulls the fork out from between Tweek's teeth, slowly and carefully, dropping it on his own plate with a _clink_. 

A dry kiss is pressed behind his ear, and Tweek shudders. He doesn’t know if Craig’s being flirty or just casually affectionate, but regardless, it turns him on.

“Are you still bored?” Craig asks.

“Kind of,” Tweek answers. “Aren't you? What are you doing that's so interesting, anyway? Because all I'm seeing is Buzzfeed news.” 

“You're so Goddamn restless,” Craig says. His fingers crawl beneath the cuffs of Tweek’s shirt, pinching at the skin of his wrist. Tweek bats his hand away. “Aren't you supposed to be practicing zen and stuff?”

“Meditation isn’t a cure for _boredom_.” He rubs at the spot where it stings. “I’m a regular person, I want to have fun too sometimes.” 

“Ok, so what do you want to do then?”

Maybe he’s reading the mood wrong, and is making a mistake. Or maybe Tweek should just learn to be upfront about what he wants. He says, “Well— Ngh. We’re home alone?”

Craig voices an exaggerated _ooh_. He spins the chair—and them—away from the monitor, attention finally caught. “What did you have in mind?”

Arousal is a full body sensation. It makes Tweek’s stomach hot with excitement, makes his arms and legs jittery, his heartbeat rapid, his brain stupid. It is his ultimate weakness. Rarely will he not show his underbelly for the promise of intimacy. He is horny and simple minded, yes—but nothing is as effective for shutting his mind off like sex.

Tweek wants it very much. But he feels mischievous now, like he should punish Craig for having made it so difficult to get to this point. At least make him ask for it, make him show that he really, _really_ wants Tweek too.

He untangles himself from Craig and stands. “No, never mind. I don't want to distract you from, uh—” He peers at the monitor. “—‘Eighteen Creepy Murder Cases You've Never Heard Of That'll Fuck You Up.’”

He returns to Craig’s bed, pretending to scroll on his phone while stretching out in a way that he hopes paints an alluring picture. What he wants more than anything else is for Craig to grab the phone out of his hands and throw it on the floor, allowing nothing to stand between him and his desire for Tweek, not even Tweek himself. He wants Craig to surrender fully to wants and needs the same way Tweek does. 

But it’s a bit much to hope for; Craig isn’t like that. 

“I think I can manage to pull myself away from this article,” Craig says, “but it’s up to you of course.”

“Try not to sound so excited,” Tweek retorts dryly. _I’m spread out on your bed_ , he thinks, _how much more obvious can I be? Just take me._

Craig doesn’t pounce on him. But he saunters over to sit on the side of the bed and rubs his thumb over Tweek’s hipbone, and that is almost as good. The mattress dips towards his weight.

“Sorry,” he drawls. “I want to bone you so hard or whatever. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Ugh. Maybe don’t speak at all.” 

Tweek puts his phone away on his own accord. It’s not like he can afford to replace it just because they got a little wild in the bedroom anyway.

Craig’s smirk shows the white of his crooked teeth. “So now you want me to be quiet? Make up your mind.” 

In the end it’s Tweek who has to beg for it. “C’mon,” he says, tired of drawing it out, “just… come here.”

Craig has no trouble following instructions. He sinks down, bracketing Tweek inside his elbows. He is very close. For a few heartbeats he does nothing but silently regard Tweek, face void of any expression that could betray his thoughts. Tweek waits, almost cross-eyed from meeting his gaze.

Craig makes a move, finally, leaning down to push his lips against Tweek’s. 

Now Tweek allows himself to reach for him. He locks his arms around Craig, pulling him down and closer, until he is a paperweight holding Tweek in place. Tweek loves the way Craig feels heavy and warm. Like this Tweek can smell the body wash on his skin, an indescribable but attractive scent. 

He indulges Craig’s tongue when it asks to slip into his mouth. Craig hums into the kiss, and Tweek, a shiver going up his neck, responds with a happy noise of his own.

It shouldn’t have taken this long to get here, but now that they’ve arrived, Tweek can barely hold himself back. He feels frenzied, tongue and teeth working against the lazy pace Craig has set until Craig gives in and his movements lose their passiveness. He rucks Tweek’s shirt up his flank, kneading the skin there like dough, and Tweek whines, the noise lost to the kiss.

His ardor must amuse Craig. He chuckles, moving to lap on the skin below Tweek’s ear where he knows his sensitivity makes him vocal. 

“What do you want, honey?” he asks. He sounds so calm and unaffected, and it infuriates Tweek. 

Tweek pushes on Craig’s shoulders until there’s breathing room between them again. He’s winded when he bravely says, “Ngn— I wanna suck you off.”

“Uh,” Craig says, intelligently. “Sure.”

Laughing at his eloquence Tweek pushes him aside so he can get on his knees on the floor. It feels good to have caught Craig off guard and claimed the advantage. He will turn things around, make Craig feel as eager and out of control as Tweek does.

Craig scoots over to the edge of the mattress, until Tweek is fitted neatly in the space between his legs. He’s already noticeably hard, his sweatpants doing little to conceal it. Tweek feels a little bad for his cock, straining so desperately against the fabric, like a trapped animal. He tugs the waistband down until he can get his fist around it and pull it free. Above him Craig inhales, hissing like he’s been burned.

Tweek loves the feel of Craig in his hand, firm but the skin so soft, and all that heavy warmth too. He jacks him slowly, watching the skin bunch and stretch. There’s a sort of marvel to it that he maybe should have outgrown after how often they do this, but it whenever he touches Craig’s dick he feels just as hot for it.

“I thought you were going to blow me?” Craig points out.

Tweek glares at him, but complies, rubbing the plump head against the flat of his tongue. A part of him wants to make it drawn out and torturous. But in his experience this doesn’t work very well on Craig, at least not to the effect that Tweek is after. And so he gives it his all, fitting as much of Craig as he can in his mouth at once.

Craig groans, a choked out, “Fuck—” that sinks like a stone through water in Tweek’s stomach. Tweek’s own arousal spikes, and he shifts on the floor—squirms—but it doesn’t relieve the need at all. The carpet is rough on his sunburned insteps.

Under his palms he feels the muscles of Craig’s thighs flexing. A hand come to cradle his skull, to scratch through his hair. Tweek tries to meet Craig’s eyes, to communicate how much he’s enjoying pleasing him, but when he glances up Craig’s lids are closed. His mouth hangs open slightly. 

_Getting there_ , Tweek thinks.

He braves another inch, until curly hairs tickle his lips and he can make out the underlying smell of his skin under the soap. It strains his mouth. He should use his hand for what he can’t fit, but would it be as good as if he managed it all? He tries, stubbornly, to fit more.

It makes him choke, throat constricting in wild protest. He opens his mouth, trying to breathe through it, and spittle drips like a cascade over his lips and down the length of Craig’s cock, soaking his sweatpants. Tweek coughs, tearing up. _Christ_.

“Okay, okay. Easy—” Craig soothes, guiding Tweek off him with gentle hands. His cock slips from Tweek’s mouth. “Take it easy. C’mon, get up. Let me do you.”

With his shirtsleeve Tweek wipes his chin. He’d be upset at failing so hard Craig put a stop to it, but Craig is flushed down to his chest, his pupils blown wide. He looks like he was close to coming. Did he enjoy it? Tweek will examine it later, but in the moment he’s more concerned with getting his own dick touched.

Craig tugs him up by the arms to kiss again. Deft fingers make quick work of the buttons on Tweek’s shirt—most helpful because Tweek’s own hands fumble ineptly with his zipper. He manages to kick out of his jeans by himself, and he breaks the kiss to get climb back on the bed. He shuffles until he feels comfortable, pillow under his head. Craig, hunched over him, eases his boxers down his legs.

“Can I throw these on the floor or will the elves steal them?” he asks, waving the underwear in the air. 

Tweek kicks at him. “Gnomes! And they’re real! Or, well, they were. I’ve not seen them in years.”

The breeze from the open window gives rise to goose flesh along Tweek’s arms. He shivers, exposed to the cold air until Craig bends down to mouth at his hips, sheltering him from the chill. The underwear Craig tosses aside. 

“If you do see them, tell them I said hi.”

“Gnh— I hope not.” The tip of Craig’s nose brush over the ticklish skin of Tweek’s stomach. He shudders. “And I know you’re making fun of me, dickhead.”

Craig doesn’t answer, only swallows him down in a single, continuous motion. His mouth is tight and sauna hot. Tweek sighs, his whole body heaving with it. 

When they do this Tweek never knows where to put his hands. Before he floats off he needs an anchor. Scrabbling, he clutches the comforter with one first and the jut of Craig’s shoulder with the other. As Craig sucks him Tweek catches himself filling the room with a stream of babble— _yes, yes, you feel so good, yes, how do you do it, fuck_ —and he clamps down on his mouth, trying to stifle it.

Craig rolls his testicles in his hand, then dips lower, to the cleft of his ass. It’s a question.

“Please,” Tweek begs, the word muffled by his fingers.

Craig looks up, pulling off. “Yeah?”

Tweek nods, chewing on his lip. His heart races in anticipation. Craig reaches across him for the bedside table where he fishes around in the bottom drawer. He pulls out lube, condoms, and a well-worn, blue towel.

“Ugh! You and your goddamn towels,” Tweek says, thinking of the heap of them downstairs in the washing machine.

“My what?” Craig asks. “Not this again. I’m not changing my sheets every time we fuck just because you get ass-lube on them. Could you cooperate for once, please?”

“Okay. But it’s actually really lame and unsexy that you keep a designated sex-towel in your room.”

“No, it would be unsexy if I made you walk all the way to the bathroom with your dick out to get one. Lift your butt now, thank you.”

Tweek does, snickering madly, and Craig slides the towel under him.

He quiets when Craig undresses, wanting to see, even if it’s nothing new. Crag’s hot. Tweek is vulnerable to the way he pulls the t-shirt over his head, and how it leaves his hair charmingly ruffled.

Craig bends down, kissing each point of Tweek’s hip bones. Tweek closes his eyes, and Craig takes him in his mouth again, bobbing slowly up and down. Tweek hears the _click_ of the lube and the squirt noise that follows. Craig doesn’t let off Tweek’s cock as he slicks himself, nor when he finally pushes one long, wet finger inside. 

Craig seems to know within the marrow of his bones how to make Tweek feel good. He knows where to prod and rub and stroke, leaving no room for tension or discomfort. What he is doing is less preparing Tweek as it is taking him apart. He feels currents of warmth ripple through the lower half of his body, pooling alarmingly fast in his belly. The sound he makes is probably more akin to someone dying than an utterance of pleasure, a growl that reverberates in his throat, guttural and raw.

When the hair follicles on the back of his scalp stand on end, just as he’s beginning to feel that telltale pull over the edge, Craig lets him go. It’s so close and so sudden, like dropping unexpectedly down a step. The same kind of swoop in his stomach. He swears. 

“Shh,” Craig soothes, palms easing over Tweek’s quivering thighs. “I thought you wanted me to fuck you?”

“You’re cruel,” Tweek says. “Hurry.”

Craig rolls the condom on. “No. Switch with me. I want to see you on top.”

Tweek slides over so Craig can lay down in his place. Tweek kneels above him, and reaches behind, until he’s got Craig’s slippery cock in his grasp. 

No matter how well-worked and relaxed he is the breach always hurts. _Breathe_ , he reminds himself. Craig feels like an impossibility, but somehow he enjoys this—the way the ache makes him feel he’s putting his body to good use, the soreness becoming pleasant. He savors it, sinking slowly, breathing—

“—Ahh. You feel so big,” he tells Craig even though it sounds like bad porno-talk. “Fuck…”

Craig echos him, a helpless, hissed, “Fuck.”

Nails dig into his thighs, ten pleasurable bee-stings. With Craig below him like this Tweek feels as if he finally accomplished what he set out to do: hold Craig’s attention fully in his grasp. Here is something nothing or no one but Tweek can do for him. And Craig, clearly, wants him to do it very much.

Craig’s chest heaves. Tweek bends down to lick a long stripe across, hairs grazing his tongue. Craig catches his cheeks and drags him up into another kiss.

When the hurt abates somewhat Tweek pulls back, shifts, testing the feel of Craig inside him. Craig’s hands finds his, intertwining their fingers, and Tweek uses the hold for leverage as he rises, beginning to fuck himself carefully on Craig’s dick.

“Yes, babe,” Craig praises, “that’s good.”

It’s not the best angle, which is to Tweek’s advantage. He moves slowly and deliberately, not seeking his own release but drawing out the experience. In that moment everything feels right. Him and Craig, skin against skin, is how they should be.

He babbles. “This makes so much sense, doesn’t it? In like, this almost cosmic way. All the pieces fit together—ahh—so perfectly.”

“What does?”

“This! Us.”

Craig glances at where their bodies are joined. “My dick in your ass?”

“No!” Tweek’s breath hitches when Craig slams up into him, first once and then over and over. “Or, yes. But all of it.”

“I never know what the hell you’re talking about, babe.”

The position is starting to get uncomfortable for Tweek. For a few beats he allows Craig to do the work, as Tweek waits to see if his leg will stop contracting. No luck.

“You’re not even trying to understand me,” Tweek says. Adds ruefully, “My foot is cramping up.”

“Alright, here.”

Tweek holds on as Craig rolls them over. He hoists Tweek’s butt back on the towel, making Tweek laugh. He’s so adamant about the thing! It feels strange to be shifted around so much with Craig still inside him, but he doesn’t wish to break their connection either. He hooks his feet together on the high of Craig’s back, opening himself for Craig to hit deeper, to fuck him more thoroughly. 

“That’s it, baby,” Craig groans into the skin of Tweek’s neck. “Put your arms around— yeah, like that, mmh—” 

Tweek clings to him, stupefied. Craig’s movements are calibrated to wring everything out of Tweek, hitting him in just the way he likes it. It makes Tweek forget about everything except the now. The squeak of the mattress, the sheet bunched up under his back, the noises their bodies make when they slam together—these things takes up all of his awareness. 

It’s not long until Craig’s grunting in his ear, a telltale sign of his climax. Tweek amps up his own ragged moaning, goading Craig on. He can tell by the frown Craig makes when he comes. He rides it out, the muscles in his arms jumping with the effort.

Though he’s spent Craig continues to move inside Tweek with deep, pointed thrusts. It’s such a relief when he takes Tweek’s cock in hand and pumps him, rapidly, trying to finish Tweek before he softens himself. 

Warmth builds in Tweek’s lower half, throbbing in tune with his pulse. He’s murmuring to Craig, “Almost— Yes, just… a little more,” until it tapers into an elated sigh. 

The orgasm is toe curling, enough so that he almost cramps up again.

Craig flops down next to him, and for a few seconds they lie smiling together, catching their breath. The connection Tweek felt hasn’t abated yet, and he revels in the closeness, both in the physical and the emotional sense. Craig is wonderful and perfect, especially when he leans forward to kiss Tweek sweetly on the mouth. 

But soon Craig pushes himself into action, tying the condom off and using the towel to clean between Tweek’s legs and wipe up the milky droplets from his stomach. When he leaves to throw it in the hamper across the room Tweek misses him immediately. 

“Ugh,” Tweek groans.

Craig raises an eyebrow. “What? Was it not good?”

“No— I mean yes, of course it was! I just don’t wanna move again in like, ever.”

Craig settles back down next to him. “Mom comes home at four so you have until then to get up and put your clothes back on.”

“Bleh, fine— Wait, you’re not going to sleep, are you?”

Craig’s pulling the blanket over them. “Depends on if you’ll let me,” he says.

“But we just started hanging out?”

“Is that what it’s called now?” Craig asks, an amused lilt to the words. 

If he rolls over to sleep away the afterglow Tweek will throw a fit. But Craig stays propped on his elbow, thankfully, watching Tweek from under half-lidded eyes. 

“So, what was so important earlier that you wanted to talk about?”

Honestly Tweek doesn’t remember. Life-hacks and conspiracies and food, but none of it was _important_. The exact topics weren’t the point; he just didn’t want to be ignored. There’s no way he can explain that to Craig in a way he will accept, though.

“Nothing,” he says instead. “I just got really bored.”

“We need to get you your fidget spinner back. Jimmy’s guppy had a longer attention span than you.”

Suddenly they’re not so close at all, but on entirely different wavelengths. Craig doesn’t sound concerned in any way at all, as if this is something Tweek should just easily get over himself. And maybe he should. 

“Or maybe you just make bad company, huh!”

“I have things to do, okay.”

“Yeah, until I offered to blow you. Not too busy then!”

“Um, excuse me.”

“I’m just saying, you’re pretty easy. Ouch! Goddammit, stop!” He rubs where Craig pinched him, and tries to get him back, nipping like a crab after his arm.

“Alright, alright,” Craig says, trying to fend him off. A faint smile shapes his lips. “Are you calling me a slut or something?”

“Gnh— Maybe I am,” Tweek says.

“Speaking of sluts,” Craig says, “Clyde tried to hook up with Esther again. He offered her shoes to go on a date with him.”

And like that they’ve left the topic behind to gossip about their friends and classmates. It’s what Tweek wanted—Craig’s active, unconditional attention. He still wonders why Craig closes himself off to him sometimes. But he doesn’t want to fight about it, not when Craig is throwing him this bone. 

He can live with wondering, as long as he still gets afternoons like these, where they lie naked together and talk about everything and nothing at all.


End file.
